


The Road to You

by Littlefeather



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family Drama, Marriage, Memories, Past Relationship(s), Self-Discovery, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-11 04:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2052999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlefeather/pseuds/Littlefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his older years, Sandor Clegane reflects on the women in his life and the influence they have had on his relationship with Sansa. Some are sexual relationships, some are not. Light Sansan; this story mostly focuses on Sandor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Elia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ballonsinthesummerbreeze](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Ballonsinthesummerbreeze).



> Ballonsinthesummerbreeze on fanfiction.net challenged me to write a Sandor/OP fic. SInce Sandor/Sansa is my OTP, I decided to write this story within that scope. Just a heads up, it won't be as long as my other fics.

After his sixtieth nameday, Sandor Clegane no longer felt the need to get up with the sun. On occasion, he allowed himself to take to his bed and spend the day dozing and staring out the huge bay windows of their keep. It was not illness or low spirits that brought on this change; rather, the years of battle that honed his muscular physique began bringing a litany of aches and pains with the morning. On the coldest days in the north, the singular pain from the old wound his thigh would not be ignored, and it was then that Sandor decided that he earned his rest.

His advancing age, however, did not prevent him from certain other, far more enjoyable activities, and the man was pleased to use his aching body as a means of securing his lovely wife all to himself.  Though he did not indulge himself often, on those days his beloved little bird would never fail to return to their bedchamber midmorning, always with the same question on her lips as she knelt down beside him and caressed his shoulders.

“Will you not get up today, my love?”

“No; let the young bucks get to the chores,” He would snarl, allowing just enough tremor in his voice to alarm her. “This old man is staying in bed for a bit. But if they dawdle, I’ll be down quick enough, believe that.” Without fail, these words would immediately bring her into bed beside him while concern knitted her still smooth forehead into a concerned frown.

“I will have hot water brought up from the springs in the godswood,” Sansa would offer as she brushed his graying hair away from his eyes tenderly, a naughty smile playing upon her full lips. “You will benefit from a long soak, I think. Perhaps I will add the salts I had the maester make for you.”

Yes, Sandor knew she would suggest such a thing, and so he would say, “Still wanting to bathe your old dog, Lady Stark? You know the rule, lass.”

The rule, of course, was that she join him in said bath, and so Sansa did. To his great delight, the Lady of Winterfell never failed to set aside her daily activities for him then, and she would spend the rest of her day spoiling him.

Firstly Sansa would order all his favorite foods brought to their rooms, send away the servants, and care for him herself. She would insist the bath filled to the brim, and would then add a fragrant assortment of oils and potions before helping him undress. She would follow him into the water after, never minding if the water sloshed over the sides or if he left puddles on the floor.

While Sansa gently washed his hair and massaged his aching body with healing oils in their shared bath, she would wrap her legs around his waist and kiss him tenderly as she shared the gossip from Wintertown.  He loved the way she confided in him and him alone, as though they were co-conspirators in the endeavor of running  Winterfell and its environs. The maester would always call about midday, offering to look at him. Without fail she would shoo him away, insisting that it was her place to care for him, and Sandor reveled in her attentions.

Bearing their six children has brought changes to the little bird’s body, but Sandor finds her more desirable than ever. His little bird is still as beautiful as she was in the Red Keep to Sandor. The man shamelessly took advantage of the situation, never failing to run his hands over her body seductively as he bathed her, kissing each part of her body as he went, which eventually invariably led to him taking her to bed.

Afterward she would sit on his lap fully nude, just as she did in the early days of their wedded union, laughing and feeding him his favorite foods by hand in their bed. Sandor marveled that Sansa would still make over him as though they were young lovers and not an old married couple who not three moons past had celebrated their twenty fifth anniversary. Yes, Sandor loved every minute of it. When they both had their fill of food and lovemaking, she would then settle into bed beside him and stroke his chest until he fell asleep.

During these precious times, Sandor Clegane would cradle Sansa in his arms and wonder why the gods he had for so long denied had ever chosen to give him the love of such a beautiful, caring woman. Certainly he did nothing to deserve it, as far as he could recall, and during these reflections Sandor would remember the women he cared for in his life, the women who guided him along the road that eventually led him to Sansa Stark.

* * *

The first female Sandor noticed was the daughter of the Dornish woodcarver who set up shop in the village under his father's keep. The old man made marvelous toys, Sandor remembers, and to buy his father’s favor, he sent his daughter to Clegane Keep with beautifully wrapped boxes for both he and Gregor. Elia was her name. She was the same age as Sandor’s sister Elinor, and tall for a woman, with copper skin, deep honey colored eyes and raven curls that flowed down her back.

Sandor remembers that she wore brightly colored gowns seldom seen on ladies in the small village where he was raised, and the sandals on her feet tinkled with tiny bells as she walked the dusty streets, announcing her arrival. Every day when he heard the sound of her footsteps, Sandor would run to his bedroom window to watch her go about her chores below the keep. Everything about her utterly fascinated Sandor, for had never seen anyone with such coloring, and had certainly never seen a lady expose her bare feet in public.

One day he caught sight of her carrying two brightly colored boxes, one blue and one red, toward Clegane Keep.  He vividly remembers that he had stared at her from his bedroom window as she approached the keep, transfixed by her otherworldly beauty. She seemed magical, the Dornish girl, and Sandor half believed she was a fairy from the bedtime stories his sister read to him.

When the steward called that they had a visitor, Sandor was pulled from his reverie by his sister. Elinor had gathered him in her arms and excitedly carried him to meet her. Smiling merrily, the young woman presented the blue box to Gregor and the red box for him, and suddenly Sandor found himself overwhelmed with bashfulness. Though delighted by the gift, he could not bring himself to face her, instead choosing to hide behind Elinor’s skirts while darting glances her direction.

As far as Sandor could tell, Gregor paid her no mind and did not seem as taken with her as Sandor. Upon receiving his toy knight, his brother rudely brushed her off.  But his sister, ever the proper lady, had drawn Sandor out from behind her legs and introduced him to the young woman.

“I am Elinor Clegane. Thank you so much for your kindness. I am certain my brothers will love playing with your father’s beautiful toys. The tall one skulking about in the corner is Gregor, and this here is the youngest, my beloved Sandor.” She had nudged him forward. “You must forgive him. He is a bit shy a present. What do we say to the lady, Sandy-bear?”

“Thank you, milady.” Sandor had barely managed to stutter out. The smiling girl suddenly knelt down before him, her amber eyes twinkling with fun.

“My, you are so very handsome!” And by the way she looked at him, Sandor could tell she meant it. Unable to bear the weight of her full attention, he grinned while slowly backing away, hoping to run to his mother so he could watch her from afar. Elinor nudged him once more.

“Thank you.” Sandor finally managed.

“You’re very welcome, my little Lord Sandor.” She looked him straight in the face and smiled, offering him her hand before he could run away. Shyly he accepted, all the while Sandor felt as though his chest would burst open with excitement. He never forgot the way it felt to have a beautiful woman look him directly in the face and smile, and the desire to have such attentions once again haunted him the rest of his life, until Sansa.

Sandor had sincerely wanted to say more to her, to tell her he listened for the bells on her sandals tinkling every day and thank her for the gifts, but nervousness rendered him speechless and no matter how hard Sandor tried, the words would not come.

“I am Elia Uller; I was named after the Princess Elia of Dorne.”

“And very aptly so, my lady, for you are just as beautiful, no doubt.” Elinor smiled broadly, lifting Sandor into her arms to alleviate his shyness. His sister was always a lady, soft spoken and with a polite compliment for everyone. “Sandor here wants to be a knight; isn’t that so?” Elinor patted his back.

“Yes.” Sandor managed before burying his face in Elinor’s hair.

In the alcove, he heard Gregor snort at that but he said nothing. From that day on, Sandor watched from his window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the young woman once again. After Gregor held his face to the fire to punish him for playing with his wooden knight, Sandor no longer saw the young woman.

One day as Elinor cleaned his wounds, he asked about her, and was stunned to hear that Elia and her father had moved away. “She apparently mixed up the presents, Sandor; Elia was supposed to give you the toy knight, not Gregor. Father raged at her for her mistake, and poor thing, she blamed herself for the subsequent…accident. After that, her father thought it best they move away from here.”

Elinor caressed his hair as she spoke. Bitter tears stung his eyes, but Sandor merely nodded and submitted to her treatment. It was then that Sandor marked the time his anger began simmering against Gregor and his father alike. It was their fault he was burned, and their fault the pretty girl left him. Despite Elinor’s many attempts at an explanation, Sandor could not fathom why his father had allowed an innocent girl to believe she was responsible, to bear the burden of blame for Gregor’s atrocity.

From then on, Sandor was determined he would never lie, no matter how awful the truth may be. It could never hurt as much as his wounds and the subsequent misery they caused, after all, or the pain of believing you were the cause of an innocent child being scarred for life. Though Sandor’s words of truth often inflicted terrible wounds, they never would cause as much anguish as the lie Elia was allowed to believe for the rest of her life, of that he was certain. That beautiful young girl suffered along with him because of a lie, and Sandor wanted to no part of it.

Once Robert appointed him as Cersei’s sworn shield, Sandor had discreetly sent out inquiries though the Seven Kingdoms as to Elia’s whereabouts, but he never did find out what became of her.  As the years passed rage fomented within him, hardening his heart and from the fires of his hatred he forged the persona of the Hound. Whoever said that time heals all wounds was a buggering fool; for with it, Sandor's hatred for liars intensified right along with his animosity for Gregor, the two becoming inextricably connected in his mind.

What bothered Sandor most, if he was honest with himself, was thatexperience is the true reason he could not bear to hear the Little bird chirp her lies in court, although Sandor understood it meant her life to do so effectively.

Watching Sansa, a beautiful, teary eyed, frightened child chirp her courtesies and tales to the Lannisters cut the man to the core; watching her inexplicably laid Sandor Clegane bare and her kindness shed his persona of the Hound. With her, Sandor was no longer the Hound, no longer the strong, fierce warrior whom all feared. No, he was a little boy again, scared, burying his face in his sister’s skirts, who had _burned_ for his innocence, who had suffered for a lie his entire life.

That is why Sandor barked at her, mocked her for her innocence and carefully crafted tales even though it shamed him and drove him to drink. Sandor needed to save her, to show her that the lions would show her no mercy and that her survival depended on her learning there were no true knights. In the end, it was the reason he finally chose to share with Sansa the secret of his scars, the reason he forced her to look at his face, so she would see the ugliness such lies wrought and would learn better, _do_ better than Sandor had done.

And so Sansa had. Though they had been married for a quarter century, Sandor never shared this with Sansa, never confided to her the reasons for the behavior that shamed him every day since the Battle of the Blackwater. He has wanted to speak of it to her for many years, but something unspeakably distressing always held him back, choking his words and sending him into his wineskins. Sansa never failed to find him after these episodes, and to her credit, she never pried for answers. No, his lovely wife never commented on it at all, and only cared for him, as she always did.

She has ghosts of her own that steal her peace, but Sandor has never managed to allow her the same courtesy, always demanding answers, making it worse for her. She deserves better, he knows, and that is part of his shame as well. No matter how it tortures him, Sandor will reveal to Sansa his reasons for telling her the truth behind his scars that drunken night. He will make his beloved wife understand, he promised himself as she slept peacefully in his arms after their lovemaking. He will make her see that, in her innocence and faith in true knights, he saw himself _before_ he was burned, and the pain it brought to his heart burned hotter than any fire he had ever faced.

Yes, Sansa deserves that much from him, the woman who has given him so much, and no longer will Sandor allow his beloved wife to believe it was her fault, as Elia had spent her life believing. He will make it right. When she awakened, Sandor was determined that he would not wait a moment longer: today would be the day he would tell Sansa the truth for her sake and that of their children. He would tell Sansa the truth for the sake of beautiful Elia, the woman who he never had the chance to tell the truth; most importantly, he would do it for the sake of the wide eyed six year old that still lives deep within the heart of Sandor Clegane.


	2. Adaryn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An innocent gift from a smallfolk child recalls the first maiden who touched Sandor's scarred face. No, it wasn't Sansa.

As much as he enjoyed lounging in bed with Sansa,  when morning came, Sandor figured it was time he got up and see about the goings on of the keep. Pulling back the heavy woolen curtains, Sandor watched as the sunlight illuminated golden bands across the greatbear pelts lining the granite floor. The morning was bright and crisp and yet no longer chilled him to the bone, and having spent the better part of his youth in the sweaty, dirty streets of King’s Landing, Sandor appreciated the colder northern climate. The chirping of the snow shrikes and robins called to him; Sansa however, still remained asleep, and so Sandor tried to move about quietly as he bathed and dressed for the day.

Sandor decided to go the stables and mull over his conversation with Sansa as he worked. She had listened attentively when he told her about Elia, nodding and squeezing his hands to convey her sympathy rather than relying on words alone. Sandor felt somewhat better, and was secretly pleased when he saw a flash of jealousy in her eyes as he described the Dornish girl’s beauty.

“Would you like to try to find her, Sandor? No doubt it would ease your mind to speak to Elia of this after carrying it with you for so long,” Sansa offered quietly while keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the finger tracing his knuckles with care. “We could send a raven to Myrcella and Trystane, or perhaps Varys’ little birds or Arya could be of use in this regard. I am certain we could find her. What say you?”

Sandor huffed quietly. “Silly little bird,” he tisked, not ungently, the man blunting his harshness in his voice by planting a kiss on her forehead. “It would be on a fool’s errand that I would be sending them. The woman is at least ten years my elder, lass; if she somehow managed to survive the war and the winter, she would be very old by now and not like to remember me.”

“That may very well be true, but what could it hurt to try just the same?” Sansa took his hands into her own. “As a woman, I can say with a certainty that if she is indeed alive, she has not forgotten the little boy you once were. It would make her happy to see you as you are now; say you will consider it.”

Sniffing heavily, Sandor finally shook his head and tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. “Leave it alone, Sansa. No contacting the Martells behind my back, either. Swear it.” He pinched her chin lightly to drive home his point.

“As it pleases you,” Sansa replied softly, caressing his face as she spoke. It did not escape his notice that she turned away without promising to do as he wished.

“I mean it, wife.”

“I only ask that you will think on it for a bit rather than decide in haste.” Sansa lightly ran her nails through his beard, then trailed them down to his well-defined stomach. Fuck, he was helpless to deny her when she did that, yet Sandor had no desire to stop her; he would allow her this, and enjoy himself in the process.

“Aye, lass; I will think on it,” he heard himself say. All at once the room felt too small for Sandor, and so he quickly tied his tunic and made ready to leave.

“Are you going out to the stables?” Sansa nonchalantly asked, though Sandor knew full well the shift in his mood did not escape _her_ notice.

“I am." He buckled his belt, refusing to look at her. "Time I made a showing so those lazy stable boys keep up with the animals.”

Sansa tenderly cupped his cheek and kissed him soundly. “Place this in his stall for me,” she handed him a prayer wheel featuring apples and oats interwoven with hay. “It will make him happy.”

Not long after they arrived North, Sandor decided to put Stranger out to pasture, and the old man sired more than his share of progeny before he succumbed to age and infirmity. For man moons he had been content to keep to his stall. Maester Tarly provided Sandor with plenty of blankets and droughts for his aches, and when the time came, to peacefully send him into the afterlife. Sandor could not bear to order the death of his old mount and so Sansa took the initiative for him.

Afterward she commanded his stall be kept for him just as it had when he was alive. Also, she insisted Stranger be buried beside Lady and had a stone statue erected in his honor there. Once a week, his devoted wife offered prayers at Stranger’s gravesite, just as she did that of her beloved direwolf, and often left treats for each animal. “They will find them in the afterlife, Sandor, and they will each know we have not forgotten them. Hopefully they will choose to reunite with us there.”

The stables of Winterfell seemed empty without the trumpeting and kicking of Stranger, and it was with a heavy heart that he went inside. Though Sansa's beliefs seemed foolish to him, Sandor also found her devotion to his former mount quite moving, and so he obliged her without comment.

After he saw to the chores, placed the prayer wheel in Stranger’s stall and bawled out a few stable boys for good measure, he decided he would go into Wintertown,. He needed to exercise his new warhorse Sansa had given him for his nameday, for the animal pranced and trumpeted, desperately needing to stretch his legs after a day spent in the stall. Black as night and as violent as he namesake, the animal’s behavior left little doubt that Warrior was Stranger’s blood for true. The stallion kicked and bit at anyone  deemed too close for comfort, and it was all the man could do not to laugh outright whenever he took him out. Only Sansa had managed to charm the beast, just as she had his sire.

“Careful, milord,” the boy nervously warned as he handed Sandor the reigns. “He’s in a particular black temper this morn.”

Sandor chuckled to himself as he easily mounted the animal, who, also like his sire, was as gentle as an old gelding with his master. “Might be I am, too. He knows it, which is why he leaves me be. Others around here would do well to follow his lead.”

The boy turned away nervously before getting back to his chores, his behavior earning a sharp chuckle from the man. Out of the corner of his eye, Sandor spotted a small girl nervously peeking out from behind a bale of hay.

“That one over there your sister?” Sandor nodded her way.

“No milord; I’ve not seen her around the stables before.”

For reasons unknown to him, ever since he and Sansa returned to Winterfell, many of the children of the servants often took to slithering about and spying on him as he worked. It both equally amused and annoyed Sandor; but there was no harm in it and a gruff word was usually all that was needed to send them scurrying back to their family abode. Sighing heavily, Sandor tried to ignore her as he reigned in Warrior.

This child, though, seemed different-familiar even, to Sandor. A wild mess of auburn curls spilled down her back, dwarfing her small frame with its volume and weight. Deep twinkling blue eyes bashfully gazed at him from behind a deeply furrowed red brow while she twisted the strings of her apron, anxiously waiting for him to address her. Sandor could not place who it was the child reminded him of, so he stared at her long and hard without speaking. Instead of running away, she smiled at him while looking him straight in the face and levelling meeting his gaze, something precious few people did.

"How do, milord?"

"Well thank you." Fuck, he had to see what she wanted. As Sandor got down from his horse, he waved her closer and it was then that the man recognized her as the oldest daughter of an ailing smallfolk woman Sansa had tended a sennight before.

“Beg pardons, milord.” The mite whispered shyly as she drew circles in the dirt with her toe. “I wish to speak to ye, if it pleases ye.”

The lass favored his daughter Catya at the same age to such an extent that Sandor felt compelled to address her, but it was not Catya that the child brought to mind when he knelt down and stared into her clear blue eyes.  When Sandor waved at her to draw closer still, she happily moved toward him of her own accord, the child seemingly fearless in the face of her lord’s scarred countenance.

“A word, please, milord?”

The burned side of Sandor’s mouth twitched into a grin. “A word then, lass. Come here now and tell me straight. I needs exercise my horse and it’s too cold for you to be out here without a coat.”

“I ain’t got one. Anyhow, I came to see you, milord, if you please.” She hurriedly explained. “I knew I’d have to come right early if I wanted to catch you in between chores.” Leaning closer, she whispered conspiratorially. “Me Ma don’t know I’m here.”

“Oh?” He was most certain the mother did not know she was there, for neither he nor Sansa would ever let such a young child near the horses unattended. "Did she tell you not to come here?"

Shaking her head, she held her fingers to her lips to indicate she wanted his silence, and Sandor choked down the laugh in his throat. Gesturing to an old book about knights Sansa had given him as a jest, the child then added, “You know your letters?”

“Aye,” Sandor nodded, glancing down at the article in question, the man having entirely forgotten he was still carrying it in his pouch. “My sister taught me.”

“Mine can’t talk yet. I’m the oldest. I’d like to teach the youngers how to know their letters.”

The child wasn’t exactly highborn but not entirely smallfolk, either; Sandor could tell by the way she spoke and carried herself. Glancing about, he looked for her parents once again. She certainly didn't come here solely to make conversation with him.

“What are you called, lass?”

“Mavelle; it means ‘bird’.”

The girl’s words strummed a memory for Sandor, one he could not fully recollect and yet it brought with it a thick knot that settled into his throat as he opened his mouth to speak. ”Tell me now, Mavelle, what business do you have with me?” He coughed out. “Is this about my lady wife? Speak up, tell me truly and make haste.”

Undaunted by his gruff manner, the young girl nodded shyly. “I went up to them moors at the dawn’s first light and picked you a bouquet of the nicest wildflowers for her.  Do you like wildflowers, ser?”

“Not usually, but from you, might be I would,” Sandor rasped softly, wishing he could make his voice gentler so as not to frighten her.  She had taken a big risk approaching him, the brave girl, and once more, her words recalled more details of his childhood memory, one of the few pleasant ones he had. “I remember you now; your Mother was ill and my lady wife took care of her.”

She smiled broadly and moved closer still. “T'is good of you to remember, milord. And I’ll not forget the way your lady took care of me Mother, treatin’ her like she was her own kin, you best believe that! She’s much better now and soon will get along fine without me. I’ll work real hard for you and your lady as soon as you needs me-that is, if you’ll have me; I swear it on the old gods.”

“When you’re old enough, aye, I’ll find a place for you in my household.” Sandor agreed, his throat inexplicably tightening further. “But when you’re older, lass. Don’t go appealing to my wife now, either; she’ll agree with me. You needs stay with your father and mother a while yet.”

“Yes, milord. I’ll look eager for the day you say I can serve ye.”

Sandor has always despised lords, and never sought out titles for himself; yet Rickon had given him lordship just the same after the Battle for the Dawn. The thought of such a delicate child wanting to serve _him_ , a lowly dog, pained him deeply. Hastily changing the subject, Sandor asked, “Has my lady taught you to read in the classes in Wintertown? Or did your mother?”

“No, ser, me Ma didn’t teach me.  I can’t go to school until the little ones are walking good, so I only know a few letters from the highborn childer who help me.”

Sandor sighed heavily; the lass deserved a better life than the one she was journeying toward: a life of hardship, of pain and hard labor seldom rewarded in the service of her betters.

Shaken from his thoughts by Warrior’s nickering, Sandor offered, “I’ll give the flowers to her for you, if you like. Sure you wouldn’t rather do it yourself, lass?”

When Mavelle wavered between wanting to go with him and keeping her place, Sandor knelt down in front of her. “I’ll take you to her and we’ll see to it that you learn your letters besides, maybe find someone to help your Mother with the little ones-what say you to that?”

Eagerly, the young girl nodded; and in her excitement, she leaned in and touched the burned side of his face while placing a feather light kiss on the other, her tiny fingers grasping the short hairs of his beard as she did so. “Oh, yes ser, thank ye kindly! I’d very much like both!”

Though her actions delighted him, Sandor inadvertently shuddered under her innocent touch, for it brought the full remembrance of another young redheaded maiden, the first to cup his face and kiss him: her name was Adaryn, and the memory of her suddenly overwhelmed his senses with a sea of emotion. Gently Sandor put his arms around her small shoulders as he thought back to his childhood.

* * *

Despite the village’s collective fear of Gregor, one and all came to offer condolences after his mother and sister died in rapid and suspicious succession. Gentle and kind, Elinor had made it her goal to make up for the mistreatment the common people received at the hands of Gregor and been a favorite among young and old alike.  His father stood by his side, wooden, unmoving, while Gregor did not even bother to attend. It had been better that way but exhausting just the same to receive their people; despite this, Sandor wanted to honor Elinor’s training, and so he dutifully helped his father accept words of comfort, prayers and gifts of food meant to lessen the bitterness of grief and sudden loss.

All day they stood in the main hall, as was the customary grieving ceremony in the Westerlands. The septons approached first with grandiose words, pompous airs while the sickening scent of incense billowed from their robes as they moved about the crowd. Then came those of higher standing, followed by those with lesser means, and finally, the servants and poorest among them were allowed to approach.

It was monotonous for a boy just past his twelfth nameday, but determined to honor the courtesies Elinor instilled in him, Sandor meekly submitted to the rite. Dumbly he responded to the many wishes of “Seven blessing on you and yours,” and “May the Seven bless and keep you"  with “Many thanks" and “And to you” just as Elinor had taught him, just as he had heard her say so many times before she died, no, before Gregor _murdered_ her.

The process soon became trialsome for Sandor, even beyond the struggle of maintaining courtesy despite his crushing grief, for most everyone shied away from his appearance, choosing instead to look away or all but ignore him. He knew he looked hideous; Gregor never missed an opportunity to point it out, but much to his chagrin, Sandor noticed that on this day, his scars looked even worse than usual. In his anguish, he had wept inconsolably, and the combination of the constant salty wetness on his tear soaked cheeks and the twisting of his features caused his facial scarring to crack open and bleed anew while the exposed portion of burned ear also began oozing profusely.

Without his sister and mother, Sandor had no one to tend his scarring, provide ointments or treat the places he could not see in the mirror, and so soon his disfigurement became infected, and thus looked and felt far worse than before. Sandor remembered wishing he could disappear, that he could change his face in the way of the Braavosi Faceless Men as he stood there in front the gathered crowd.

The septons were worst of all, for they knew the truth behind his scarring and yet judiciously made the sign of the Seven over Gregor’s empty place beside his father just the same. The men then carefully avoided looking at him while waving burning incense in front of his face and muttering their empty prayers to the Mother. The fear he felt at having smoke so close to his face paired with the emptiness of their words brought the simmering rage Sandor had spent the day choking down to a full boil.

Just as Sandor reached his limit, the very last family approached. Ragged and thin, it was apparent they nevertheless had cleaned up to the best of their ability and put on their neatest garments before journeying to Clegane Keep.  The father, a thin man whose face reminded Sandor of a ferret the neighbor boy kept as a pet, spoke in soft tones close to his own sire’s ear, his words going unheard by Sandor. When the children shrunk away at his appearance, Sandor malevolently stared them down for a bit, then decided that since the absence of their mother suggested their own recent loss, he would oblige them by turning away.

As Sandor slinked behind a tree in the outer courtyard, a small girl reached out and touched his hand. “Hi,” she shyly smiled at him. “I’m named Adaryn. It means ‘bird’ in the Old tongue. What’s yours?”

He didn’t know of which old tongue she spoke, but Sandor refrained from asking, merely wishing she would go away. He stared at her right in the eyes, waiting for her to run away as the others had. But she only continued to smile at him brightly, the tiny creature seemingly nonplussed by his scarred face.

“Don’t you have a name? It’s not nice not to tell your name when others do.”

“Sandor Clegane,” he rasped out quietly, moving away from her. “You ought to hold your tongue and don’t let my brother hear you. Don’t you know you’re in my father’s keep?”

“Aye, that I do,” Adaryn shrugged as she fumbled behind her. “I brought you these.” She placed a small bunch of flowers in his hands. “They’s winter roses.”

There was not a rose among her offering, but Sandor liked the way she looked straight at him and spoke what she thought, and so he let that minor detail pass.

“You like flowers?” She queried when his silence became too much for her.

“From you, I guess I do,” Sandor sneered at her, the young man equally intrigued and puzzled by her wild red hair, direct gaze and straightforward behavior not often seen among his people. “Why’d you bring these for me? I’m no woman.”

“You’ll be missin’ your Ma, that’s why,” Adaryn’s mouth turned down sadly as she spoke. “Like I been missin’ mine for a year on now. Flowers help.”

That caught his attention. “Your mother’s dead too?”

“Aye,” she nodded. “It hurts awful even for a big boy, though I reckon not your elder kin.”

Staring toward the keep, Sandor gave a short nod of agreement before answering, when suddenly he felt her tiny hand cupping his cheek. “Big boys got tears in ‘em, same as us little ones. Didn’t you have ‘em when you burned?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “My brother…he did it.” Sandor had no idea why he let such a thing slip out, and he regretted it the moment the words left his mouth. “If you ever tell anyone, I’ll kill you.” He halfheartedly growled at her.

Adaryn’s eyes widened slightly but the girl moved closer still. “It’s worse than I figured. You’ll be needing this, too, mark my words,” she urged his head down and lightly placed a small kiss just below his burned ear. “My greatma gives ‘em to me; they seem to help with the hardest of it.”

Moved to tears, Sandor could not feel her fingers beneath the leathery flesh, but he had felt her warmth. The genuine concern in her young eyes moved him far more than any words the septons offered that day. More importantly, she was the first person to touch his scarred face, to treat him as a person and not a disfigured abomination the gods mysteriously spared from death.

Though simple, the gesture had a profound effect on Sandor for the rest of his life. In that singular moment, Sandor realized that Gregor’s horrific cruelty wouldn’t control the way everyone looked at him and Adaryn’s small act of kindness planted a seed of hope in him: perhaps someday, _someone_ would see past his scars. Perhaps that someone would likewise be a woman, one who would even grow to care for him.

Sandor Clegane never forgot the tender, simple gesture which so altered him that a similar touch, given to him by Sansa the night the Blackwater battle, was enough to recall the man he wanted to be as a boy, the man Sansa saw when she looked at him-not the Lannister dog that he was, not the drunken killer covered in blood who was holding a knife to her throat and demanding a song-but a deeply flawed, desperately lonely man who was starved for human affection.

When Sandor stared into Sansa’s fathomless blue eyes that night, he saw the boy he had once been; the scarred, frightened boy who had yet to kill whatever tenderness was left in his heart, the boy that longed for the gentle touch of a woman, for understanding, for compassion. Sansa’s tremulous prayer resurrected the glimmer of hope Adaryn brought into Sandor’s heart that day, the long buried wish that he would find someone who cared for him. For a moment in that room alight with wildfire, Sandor wondered if perhaps Sansa Stark would be that person after all.

His tears had flown freely then, mixing with the blood and the mud that caked his face, but, like Adaryn, his appearance did not repulse Sansa either. In fact, despite his fearsome, gore stained visage and boorish behavior, she offered him kindness, cupped his cheek, ran her fingers gently through the rivulets of his scarring and sang for him. The little bird reached out, not only to his disfigured countenance, but his equally scarred soul, and she could not have given him a more valuable gift.

Sandor had struggled to tell Sansa what it had meant to him, to have her pray for him and touch his face, but in his drunken stupor his words failed him. All he could manage was to offer to take her from King’s Landing, and seeing that he had only succeeded in frightening her, Sandor took his leave and left her with only his bloody cloak as a remembrance of the Hound.

Just then, Mavelle shivered in his arms, rousing Sandor from his reverie. A light snow had begun to fall, soaking the thin rough spun material of her gown. As he gazed at the young girl, Sandor pulled his cloak off and wrapped her up in it, offering her a smile as did so. It pleased him to see that she eagerly mirrored his expression, the child contentedly humming to herself as she settled the enormous garment around her thin frame. Suddenly he could see she realized the grave error she had committed by embracing her liege lord, and fearful both that she offended him and of the untold repercussions to follow, the child abruptly recoiled in tears.

“Beg pardons, milord, please don’t be angry!” Mavelle wrung her hands, anxiously backing away from him. “I’m wont to remember my place, and me Pa wears me out over it.”

Enraged, Sandor knew she had good reason to be skittish just then, for he had seen the Lannisters flog children for far less than an embrace, and it stood to reason the smallfolk would do likewise.

“Bugger that, lass. I’m not angry with you. You mustn’t fear me,” Sandor growled low, taking her into his arms once more. “Only a bloody coward strikes a child. I have brought forth six children and a grandbabe besides; not once have I raised my hand to any one of them and neither has my lady. I’ll see to that father of yours, you best believe.”

Wide-eyed, Mavelle gazed at him, unsure as to how she should proceed or if he was expecting an answer.

“Has he beaten or punished you for such in the past?” Sandor prodded gently.

“Yes. T’is only that he fears that what happened to me Ma when the former masters was here could fall upon me too.” Came her whispered confession. “It’s too bad to put to words.”

 _The Boltons._ It had been twenty five years since Daenerys and the remaining Starks laid waste to House Bolton and yet still the smallfolk still spoke the dreaded name in hushed whispers, as if such utterances would raise their house from the Seven hells. The old familiar rage shimmered through his blood as he regarded the child’s frightened demeanor, and reaching out, Sandor stilled her wringing hands. Her mother must have been naught twelve years old at the time, of that Sandor was certain, the same age Sansa had been when Joffrey began tormenting her. It was the same age Adaryn had been when Gregor, newly knighted by none other than Prince Rhaegar Targaryen himself, slit her throat with his jeweled blade because she refused to curtsey to him.

“You burnt your own kin! Only the Seven knowd why the prince knighted you! Monsters, the both of you!” Sandor heard her shout just before Gregor’s blade came across her neck. “You’ll burn in the Seven hells for this!” It took Sandor’s father as well as the two blacksmith’s in retainer at Clegane Keep to restrain him from killing Gregor that day, after which Sandor left home, never to return.

Adaryn had been bold, fearless even, just as Mavelle was, but Sandor knew the folly of it in the world they lived in. It sent burning bile into Sandor’s throat, but just as he so often did with Sansa, he schooled his face into a passive expression. “Come now, dry your face. We’re off to see my lady and she will scold me for scaring you when she sees your tears.”

Wide eyed, she stared at him but went about rubbing her dirty sleeve over her cheeks as Sandor nested Mavelle into the crook of his arm and carried her to Sansa. “I’m not scared of you.”

“I can see that, lass.” Sandor would also see to it that this child would have her chance where Adaryn did not. His efforts at teaching maidens the dangers of life had admittedly mixed results, and so Sandor decided he would leave her education to Sansa.

“Will your lady teach me letters?” Mavelle asked hopefully as they drew near the family rooms.

“Aye she will, and she’ll see to it you get all the proper schooling you need, you and yours. You have my word, child. No more tears now; I hear my lady within.”

Happily the child wriggled in his arms until Sansa, smiling knowingly at her husband, eagerly ushered her inside. “You and your soft spot for little red haired girls,” She whispered against his mouth as she greeted him.

“Bugger that, little bird.” Sandor growled for good measure as both his wife and the girl to burst into hearty laughter. He was halfway to Wintertown when the smile curling his lips finally faded.


	3. Willow

Sandor settled back in front of the fire, allowing the thick ale to warm him as he scanned the main room of the Wolf’s Den Inn. Though Warrior was eager as ever, he had stopped when the howling snowstorm made the road impassible. The weather would undoubtedly make travelling back to Winterfell unsafe, so he set up Warrior for the night and made for the great room for the evening meal. 

An old habit from his soldiering days, he knew his intense gaze weighed heavily upon the other customers; yet some of his old habits served him well even now, and keeping an eye on his surroundings had saved Sandor more than once over the years. From his vantage point, Sandor quietly observed the other customers and kept an eye on those coming and going.

“Welcome, milord. T’is frightful weather out. Hungry, are ye?” Ilysa asked as she placed another tankard in front of him, the young woman not waiting for an answer before setting about filling his bowl with rabbit stew.

“Aye, that I am.” Sandor gestured to the pig roasting on the spit over the fire. “Smells good. When will it be ready?”

“Soon milord; within an hour hence. Care to wait?”

The crackling meat dripped its juices on the fire, filling the room with a most pleasant scent. “I think I will at that. You have ravens here?”

“Aye, one. Needs tell milady you’re stuck here with us for the night?” Her eyes twinkled as she spoke.

Ignoring her remark, Sandor took out a small piece of parchment, scribbled on it, tied it securely and handed it to her. “No more questions. Just see this gets sent to Winterfell, understand?

“Very good milord.” She anxiously motioned for her son to take it. “I trust the day has found our lady well?”

“Yes, very well.” Irritably Sandor drummed his fingers on the table. The strain of the social expectations lordship placed upon him often drained the man. Several people smiled at him, requiring him to offer a short nod, but most left Sandor to his drink and for that he was grateful.

Sandor preferred the Wolf’s Den to the only other inn in Wintertown for this very reason-sellswords and tradesmen, ex-soldiers, nobles and smallfolk alike mingled here, spending their off hours sharing stories of the war but also, they seemed to know when to leave a man alone.

“Can I get you anything _else_?” Ilysa leaned forward, giving Sandor a clear view of her cleavage. The serving wenches were pretty here, though none as pretty as Sansa. His bride, even at forty years of age, still turned heads when she entered a room, much to Sandor’s delight. Sansa was beloved by the highborns and smallfolk alike but that did not prevent the women here from wanting his coin and they would always make sure he knew they were willing to service the husband of their liege lady should he feel so inclined.

“No, damn it. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times; go find your coin elsewhere. Away with you now.” Sandor leaned in close and snarled fiercely in her face, scaring the young woman so that she stumbled backward into the table behind him.

Smirking, Sandor snorted at her and went about his meal. Anyone who thinks he would forsake his wife for a quick fuck in town didn’t know him very well. Though he had his share of women in his younger days, Sandor preferred having one woman all to himself, one who loved him in return. In his younger days Sandor would have told his older self to fuck off with that nonsense; but it wasn’t until he had Sansa’s love for his own that Sandor truly understood what had been missing from his life. No one understood better than Sandor how unworthy he was of Sansa, how fortunate he was to have her love; he’d not jeopardize that for a quick fuck with some tart looking for coin.

A blustery wind blew followed a group of young men into the room, bringing a litany of  shouted curses and complaints from those already inside. Quickly the serving wenches surrounded the newcomers, eager to serve anything on the menu of the day, and, it appeared to Sandor, a few things that were _not_ on it.  One young man in the group, hardly near his eighteenth nameday and who could hardly contain his blushing, wore a gruesome scar that bisected his face in a most alarming manner.  

The room had grown silent. When the young men finally glanced over at him, one and all leapt to their feet and began stumbling over their tongues in their haste.

“Seven blessing on ye, milord.” The scarred boy spoke up first.

“May the old gods and the new keep ye and yourn safe.”

“Many thanks,” Sandor growled low, eying the men. “Go on about your business now and leave a man be.”

Grinning, they went back to the women. Two of his companions quickly sat down and waved over one of the sporting women. She was pretty with thick dark curls and bright blue eyes; Sandor had noticed her himself when he walked in. The men began waving coin behind the scarred youth’s back as they pointed toward him. Eagerly she then settled on his lap and began fawning over him.

Grunting, Sandor glanced between the young man and the wench a moment, suddenly recognizing the seemingly innocuous scene as very similar to a happening from his own past. It pained him instantly, this memory, and the resulting fury that came over him seemed to drive the air straight from his lungs. His appetite suddenly gone, Sandor wanted nothing more than to be back with his wife.

Turning his face toward the fireplace, he instead settled into his ale for the duration, choosing to watch the flames lick at the cool air rather than watch the scarred lad any longer. Staring at the amber liquid glinting in the firelight, Sandor thought back to when he started using wine to settle his nerves and temper.

* * *

On his twelfth name day Sandor left home to squire for Ser Amory Lorch at the very end of Robert’s Rebellion. Horrified by the slaughter and violence surrounding him, Sandor discovered that while he was clearly gifted when it came to fighting, he was unwilling to wallow in the bloodshed as Gregor did. Eventually, as the sack of King's Landing progressed, blessed numbness began washing over him during battle; unfortunately it did little to assuage the raw grief, the unrelenting hunger and cold and uncertainty of survival that plagued him.

As the years passed, Sandor faltered, not on the battlefield, but afterward. The young man was plagued by nightmares and general nervousness after each skirmish, and Ser Amory Lorch and Gregor took every opportunity to ridicule him for it.

Only Jaime Lannister never participated in the hazing, much to Sandor’s confusion. The golden knight always maintained his cool, calm, easygoing manner. He envied Jaime’s apparent ability to turn off his feelings, and Sandor grew determined to learn the secret to the golden lion’s ease. One day after an especially bad battle and subsequent taunting, Jaime Lannister handed Sandor his flagon, telling him this was how Lord Tywin taught him to cope with difficulty in dealing with battle.

His actions and words silenced both of the cruel knights, for not even Gregor dared mock the son of Tywin Lannister for showing an act of kindness to a scarred squire, and thus, Sandor quickly learned to choke down his fear and rage with wine.  The relief wine brought was always temporary, and quickly followed by the usual miseries of overindulgence.

After a while, Sandor tired of the same cycle repeating itself, and so, as soon as the army reached a semblance of a town, he decided to follow the lead of the other men and hurry to the nearest brothel in search of a woman, the young man eager to explore a new means of solace, one that would not leave him hurting the next morning-or so he thought.

To Sandor’s great embarrassment, however, most of the young whores would not take him at any price; some would even cry at the sight of his scars, though they would always tell him it was because they were afraid of his size and brutal reputation. Though their responses enraged him, Sandor would not force them, and so he would always wind up leaving in an even fouler mood than when he arrived.

More than one man told him to just take what he wanted, that whores didn’t require asking; but Sandor would not allow his desires to rule him, nor allow them to transform him into Gregor. The damnedest part of the whole situation was that inside the increasingly fierce Hound was a young man just out of boyhood who was not merely eager for sexual experience but for human contact outside of battle.

Though it shamed him, Sandor longed to be touched kindly, intimately, to feel the warmth of soft skin against his own, of feminine hands running along his battle scarred back. Sandor yearned to feel, not merely like a brutal weapon of the Lannisters or a scared young squire but like a _man_ and according to the other soldiers, fucking a whore would accomplish just that. And so, he kept trying to find a woman who would take his coin and let him into her bed; unfortunately, not one of the women he approached would do so at any price.

Shamed by his weakness and failure, Sandor alternated between burying his feelings and drowning them with ever more copious amounts of wine. The other men continued to torment him, all excepting Jaime. The young man seemed to understand, or at least sympathize with Sandor’s predicament, and would settle down each evening beside him with a flask of Dornish sour. The idea that he had the pity of a pretty boy like Jaime fueled Sandor’s wrath all the more.

The two first fought alongside each other in the campaign against the Kingswood Brotherhood during which both young men began building their respective reputations. The golden lion fast became a favorite among the soldiers and officers, first by saving Lord Crakehall from Big Belly Ben and later engaging the psychotic Smiling Knight in heated combat.

Sandor, on the other hand, was styled ruthless and fearsome, a young man to be avoided and derided, and it was then he first was called the Hound. Egged on by Gregor, all the knights mocked and scorned him, and by the time Jaime was knighted on the battlefield by Ser Arthur Dayne, his hatred for the appointment itself and those who took the vows was cemented within him.  From then on Sandor avoided Jaime at all costs and took out his anger on any opponent who crossed his path.

Upon their return to Casterly Rock a year later, Lord Tywin held an immense feast in Jaime’s honor, and the amiable young knight made a special invitation to his former comrade in arms. Ser Amory Lorch insisted he attend, and since there was no way Sandor could refuse without causing insult to his liege lord, so he grudgingly put on his best tunic and breeches and made an appearance.

Determined to drink as much as he was physically able in the shortest amount of time possible, Sandor spent the night sulking in the corner with his wine while he enviously watched Jaime easily socialize with soldiers and lords alike, the young lion laughing as though he had not a care in the world. When Sandor caught his eye, Jaime raised his goblet to him.

It did not escape his notice that Jaime’s beautiful twin Cersei stood in the shadows and glowered at her brother while all the serving women and highborn ladies vied for the young lion’s attention. Disgusted, it was then Sandor realized the rumors floating around were true, and was near ready to gather as many wineskins as he could carry and take his leave.

An exceptionally pretty girl with rich chestnut colored hair sidled up beside him, looked him straight in the face and smiled.  “Leaving so soon?” She laughed, pointing to his haul of Dornish sour. “I was hoping we could get to know one another other better. I’m Willow and you might be-?”

Looking back, Sandor realizes he should have known then something was amiss-her opportune timing, the way she didn’t even flinch as she looked at him, her forwardness that was so uncharacteristic of her highborn status-but gods help him, there was a part of him longed to believe that the striking young maid’s interest in him was sincere. After a little more wine and a little more persuasion on Willow’s part, Sandor decided he would stay and visit, the man fully intending to leave just as soon as it was polite to do so.

Something in her manner appealed to him, however, and so he continued listening attentively as Willow prattled on about an assortment of mundane things. She laughed easily at his attempts at humor, touched his arm with a twinkle in her eye as he spoke, and before Sandor realized it, the feast was over.

“Will you take me riding tomorrow, Sandor? We do not have a carriage in town and the weather is quite fine.” Willow batted her deep blue eyes at him while toying with the neck of his tunic. The feel of her soft fingers brushing against his skin had him as hard as stone in moments.

She was the first woman who ever took an interest in him and though a part of him whispered that it was false, Sandor could not help himself but go along with it. “Sure, I’ll get one for us,” he heard himself stutter out. Though he was a bit nervous, Sandor was utterly captivated by her and could not let the opportunity to have her all to himself pass him by.

“I look forward to it, Sandor. I’ll look for you on the morrow at noon.” Willow purred, the girl seemingly oblivious to his eagerness. Then she did something wholly unexpected: suddenly she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. Willow’s breath was warm and her lips soft against his skin and Sandor eagerly, if not clumsily, pressed his mouth to hers in return. Laughingly she left him, only to haunt his dreams the rest of the night.

After their ride the following day, they walked hand in hand through the tall wildflowers beside the river as though they were lovers, and Sandor marveled that he found a beautiful woman that would allow him such intimacy. Later, Willow kissed him, his first real kiss. Sandor marveled that she neither cringed nor shied away from his burned appearance, even when she looked at him up close.

He bumped noses with her in his eagerness. “I’ve never kissed anyone-“ Sandor stammered by way of explanation.

“It was lovely, Sandor. You are, too.” She smiled at him so genuinely that Sandor’s heart threatened to beat out of his chest with happiness. To his delight, Willow then let him touch, kiss and taste every part of her that he desired as they lay together among the wildflowers. In turn, the girl touched and kissed every part of him in ways Sandor hadn’t even imagined in his most heated wine dreams. As the sun moved low over the rosy horizon, Willow then gently pulled him down on top of her and insisted Sandor take her under the open sky.

“Please, Sandor, make me yours,” she whispered into his ear, the feel of her breath sending chills up his spine.

It was clumsy, awkward and about the closest thing to happiness Sandor experienced since his sister and mother died. He was an eager student, for Willow gently guided his movements, taught him to slow down and where to touch her so she would find her pleasure as well. When she reached down and took his manhood in her hands, Sandor lost control and spilled his seed on her hands.

Utterly mortified, Sandor was convinced he had committed some unforgivable wrongdoing, but Willow only smiled at him and continued caressing his penis and testicles gently, her movements making him hard once more. “There now, this will give us more time to learn each other.”

Looking back, he should have known something was amiss, but  Willow made him feel so good, so satisfied and yet so aroused that Sandor could not be made to care about his nagging doubt if his life depended upon it.

After he left her with her family that evening, Sandor could hardly wipe the stupid grin off his face. When he returned to the barracks, however, the men teased him mercilessly, much to his confusion.  How did they know where he had been? Just as Sandor was about to come to blows with one man until Ser Barristan approached him.

“Did you have a pleasant afternoon, Clegane?”

“Aye, I suppose, my lord.” Sandor struggled to maintain his usual scowl.

“Let’s take a walk, shall we?” Ser Barristan lightly rested his hand on Sandor’s shoulder.

Once out of the earshot of the others, the knight guardedly related that Willow was no ordinary girl; in truth, she was a high paid whore whom Lord Tywin hired as a reward for his service.

“Jaime fucking Lannister!” Sandor shouted at the top of his voice before overturning a work bench in the livery. Ser Barristan claimed Jaime knew nothing about it, and continued insisting on it for many years after, though Sandor never believed him.

Humiliated and enraged, Sandor did not wait for Ser Barristan to excuse him, and stormed off in search of Jaime while openly vowing he would never trust the word of any knight ever again. When he finally found him with his father in the armory, Sandor blackened his eye.

Looking back, Sandor is certain Lord Tywin would have had him killed on the spot if not for the pleading of his son, the golden knight who inexplicably seemed to understand his anger. That did not prevent Lord Tywin from giving Sandor forty lashings in front of the men, administered by his favorite pet Gregor, of course. Stubbornly Sandor took his punishment without so much as crying out, much to the amazement of the men. After he healed, he sought Willow out-for an explanation or an apology, he did not know-but soon learned that Tywin had given her to Gregor, and that his brother had killed her as soon as he discovered she had serviced his little brother as well.

Many years later in a tavern after yet another battle, with his tongue was loosened by copious amounts of wine, Sandor finally found the nerve to ask Jaime why he did it. The only response he got from the newly appointed captain of the Kingsguard was a curt reply.

“The whole bloody mess reminded me of my brother.” Jaime could not even bring himself to look at Sandor as he spoke, and for once, Sandor did not press him further.

Over the years, Jaime’s words caused Sandor a great deal of wonder, until Sansa related the story of her first husband’s wife, Tysha. The memory of her words sent an involuntary shiver through the man. “Another ale, Ilysa.”

“Yes milord.”

The door blew open, and even in the dim light, Sandor recognized the imposing form of his oldest son, the young man swathed in the black clothing of the Night’s Watch. The boy was the spitting image of him, or what he would have looked like if not for Gregor. “Come on over here, lad. Care to share supper with me?”

“Aye, many thanks Father.” Edric grinned while glancing around at the serving wenches.

“Who do we have here?” Ilysa asked, eying Edric up and down as she spoke.

“My son. Bring another ale, will you?“

Edric grinned broadly at the sound of his father’s snarling. “Father, I didn’t expect to see the family in here, that’s for sure. Is Mother here too?”

“No, she’s at home. You’re a long way from Castle Black. Come here for the sport, did you? Don’t lie to your father now,” Sandor growled low, a mischievous smile curling onto his mouth as he spoke. “You know how I hate liars.”

“Father, you know better than that.  I would never lie to you; you’d sniff it out far too easily, not to mention that I’d never recover from the licking I’d get, you best believe,” Edric laughed as he blew onto his palms and rubbed his hands together by turns.

Sandor chuckled once more; Sansa would have scolded him had she heard him speak to their son in such a way but he could not resist teasing the lad.  Edric had the look of his father but his mannerisms were all Sansa.  It was no thanks to him that their children all had fine manners; Sansa had ignored his grumbling and taken great pains with each of them. Now that they were grown, Sandor secretly was very proud.

“You didn’t answer me. Did you come all this way to consort with a lewd woman?” When his son colored deeply, Sandor barked out another harsh laugh. “Don’t worry, those bloody vows you took don’t mean shit to me. I won’t tell your mother.”

“No, Father.” Edric answered in such a way that Sandor knew the joke was wearing thin on his son’s mood. “I just stopped in to get out of the blizzard. Uncle Jon sent me home with a message for Mother and Uncle Rickon. It must be very serious, for Uncle Jon said she must have it immediately.” Edric pulled a roll from his pack. “Here, see for yourself.”

Sandor doubted that, for there was always some such information that required her attention, and over the years he learned to ignore most of them. After scanning its contents warily, Sandor placed it in his pocket. “It’ll keep for your mother, son; don’t fret. We’ll give it to her together.”

Edric nodded eagerly and smiled once more.

Turning toward Ilysa, he called out, “Bring another plate for my boy, will you?”

“Yes, milord.” Turning to Edric, she whispered, “Is there anything else I can get you?”

Glancing at his father, the young man firmly answered, “No.”

Edric’s answer pleased Sandor greatly, for he did not want his children to suffer the lessons he and Sansa learned the hard way.  She had taught them that love and marriage were to come before a bedding, and while Sandor did not agree with her moral code on the matter, he did hope each of their offspring would seek out companionship for love, not to soothe a broken heart, as he had.

“So what were you thinking of, staring so somberly at the fire?” Edric needled him in return.

“See that boy over there with the sporting woman on his lap? The one with the scars?”

“Aye,” Edric nodded somewhat confusedly. “What of it?”

“He reminds me of myself at that age." Sandor's words sat thick, immovable in his throat; but for the good of his son, he forced himself to speak. "Sit back, boy, I have a story to tell you; mayhap you’ll learn from it and spare yourself some heartache.”


End file.
